Forgiveness
'Sheltered Flame Keep - Lower Tower ' ---- ::When woodsman Grummlan Path stumbled upon the ancient keep in Mikin Wood, he laid eyes upon ancient stone curtain walls sprawling with choketwister vines while much of the rest of the castle had fallen into crumbling ruin and disrepair. Only this tower stood seemingly untouched by time or decay. ::The tower is a squat cylinder, about thirty feet in height. This spacious lower level is devoted largely to a parlor area, with a fireplace, sofa and chairs, where members of the Order of the Flame may gather occasionally for casual conversation. ::Steps of pitted gray stone wind their way along the perimeter of the inner wall toward the next level up. ---- "Sir, 's sommat I got t' do right." He offers, in steady hand, a long black flight feather - "I need t' tell 'er m' sorry. An' I need t' face what m' doin' wrong, s' all. She says t' go, I go, 'n trouble ye n' at all. But.." He keeps his hood up, looking down. "m' nae lookin' fer trouble either way." (Said as Kael approaches Sheltered Flame Keep guards in the yard) The guard glances down at the feather and takes it with a mild snort. At this late hour he'd seen stranger things... "Take this to 'er Grace," he barks to the herald at the door and extends it backwards in demand. "If it means anything, she'll be askin' fer ye, soon 'nuff." And that's that. While the guard resumes his less than amused stare at the visitor, the herald scurries off between the statues to ferry the feather to its would-be recipient. The young man - no, he doesn't fidget. He does, however, despite the relative warmth of the spring evening, keep his hood up, his silver-trimmed cloak nicer than his words would indicate is proper. He goes so far as to lean on the stonework, holding up a portion of the wall, peering out. Several minutes pass into the halving of an hour. Then, life stirs once more in the doors to the receiving hall as the herald returns. He holds in his hand the same feather and uses it to beckon the visitor inside. "Her Grace will see you now...on the condition that a third body bears witness to your visit. The guard awaits inside her parlor chamber with the Duchess Rowena. So if you'll be so kind as to follow me..." Even as he moves, the young man removes his belt.. leaving it, his pouch, his blade.. his axe, all with the gate guards. Taking a deep breath, he follows, not yet lowering his hood, instead simply staying quiet, letting himself be led. The herald leaves the young man standing at the entrance to the tower, raps twice on the door, then scuttles away again as the guard inside opens. The black and white ensemble of Mikin crest stares blatantly from the plate on the man's chest. Without a word, he puts his finger to his lips in gesture of silence and then steps aside to permit the guest entry. "She'll see you." Inside, a fire crackles noisily in the hearth, drowning the silence of the room in a rosy glow. A woman lounges in an overstuffed chair, back to the doorway, one hand stroking the rim of a goblet with measured rhythm. Finally - finally the young man pulls back that silver-trimmed hood, brown eyes oddly sad above the Mark. He looks up to the guard, and nods, once. Taking a deep breath, he moves forward - his boots too broken-in to creak. He pauses, at the chair's back, offering diffidently, quietly, "... Mi'.." A pause, then a careful.." ..er.. yer grace? M' sorry s' so late. Hard t' find ye, on th' ground - I been here afore, b' accident, but th' way is nae a straight one." A quiet noise, a chuckle or sniff perhaps, answers his plea. Then: "I hope you find the space here comfortable enough. I do at times engage my guests in the study upstairs, but that is a chamber I believe you've already taken the liberty of making yourself familiar with, so...really there's no need." The lethal accuracy of each syllable is spoken in the lowest, softest of tones, but kept monotone on a bed of firmness. Several seconds pass, enabling her words to deliver their bite, before the woman chooses not to rise, but simply turn her chin aside and allow a single eye to gaze knowingly over her shoulder to the escorted figure. Her right wrist stirs the wine in its goblet with gentle motion, hovering well above the arm of the chair. Her chin dips slightly forward, the shift causing the dangling drake's tear to glint sharply between her brow. The gold-etched flames that rim her skull mirror the beauty of the truer form that burns avidly in the corner. Another shifting of her head and they reflect for a fraction of a second the images of those standing in the doorway behind. "And how now, a surprise indeed," though her tone be not startled as she places remembrance of the man's face, stare locked on the tatoo. "A stranger you are not, for more reason than the feathered fiasco, I see. So if you so desire..." her left arm extends, gesturing vaguely to the chair that's been placed opposite her own, parted by a low table. He looks down, greying hair - though captured by ties of leather along its length - falling down over his shoulder. He moves, as bidden, to the seat, rubbing absently at his calloused hand, a nervous gesture that belies the outward calm. Not that it's a schooled calm, or an expression used to hiding emotion - but most of that emotion is simple sadness, a vague sort of worry. ".. I.. I came t' apologize t' ye, m'.. yerr.." He pauses. "I donnae ken what t' call ye, really. Yer guards called ye 'her grace'.. " He swallows. "M' sorry, yer grace. I did ken ye, but 's nae really 'n excuse." He sits, carefully, looking up to her - "I hae no right t' be rude - 'n I were. Been thinkin' about 't a lot since then." Talk as Kael may, it seems that Rowena isn't yet in the mood to listen as her words pick up soon after they ended. "I do loathe the flight of the raven," she whispers, fingers bringing to light a small tuft of ebony plucked from the afore offered feather. There, hovering in the balance of breaths, breezes, and gravity, the downy wisp quivers on her outstretched fingertip, anticipating its fate. She narrows her eyes at it, voice continuing to speak in a vacant tone. "Those ominous beats of wing, self-righteous in the messages they bear, the sting of the beak, the pluck of the talons, those beady, black eyes..." an upwards glance is thrown to her guest as her lips form a little 'o' and in a single puff of air, sends the minute plummage adrift across the room. "Or in your case I do believe they were red." Languidly, she lifts the goblet to her lips and for just a heart's beat, it tremors against them before the sip is taken. The mostly emptied pitcher resting on the table suggests that this is indeed not the first goblet of the evening. The guard at the door in the meantime stands motionless, save for the occasional sniff, his eyes forced to wander elsewhere in the room between glances at the visitor. Kael's eyes track that whisp of feather, that bit of fluff. And.. then he looks down, at those calloused hands. ".. m' sorry." That's said with a certain resignation - but still, oddly, no fear. He takes a long, slow breath. ".. m' nae much proud o' m'self." As Kael stares into his hands, something alters faintly in the glare of the Duchess's eyes. Her breath inhales more softly, deeply, and in swallowing the wine, lowers the goblet gently back to the table. Her head forms a small nod, acknowledging his apologies for the first time. "You frequently fly through Mikin wood then, do you? It must be an easier task now that many of the thicker trees have been reduced to ash, buried in the earth. Is this why you have come to my cousin's school?" Her neck straightens out, eyes blinking forcefully once to wipe the glaze away. "To seek me out? Or to learn more of your....seeming affliction." He looks up - not quite to her eyes, daring, perhaps her goblet. ".. S'.. no' .." The young man frowns, putting words together carefully... "m'lady, Celeste 's doin' sommat right. An'.. what m' doin' there hae.. nothin' t' do wi' ye, o' this place." A bit defiant.. perhaps, or, perhaps, just the strength of an odd conviction. "I mean t' harm no one - m' a monster, aye. I been one too long t' be anythin' else - but e'en a monster kin find meanin'." He straightens, slightly. "S' what 'm doin' there - o' tryin' to. We kin be worth sommat, 's much 's anyone. If w' dare t' try t' be." A breath leads to.. a moment's pause, and something leaving him, eyes going back down. "I .. th' trees dyin' here, I weep fer 'em. I kin feel .. " He falls silent, ".. y' woul' nae believe me, anyroad." "Don't underestimate my understanding," comes a swift by surprisingly gentle reply. "The shifts between powers of Light and Shadow have left many changed in ways formerly inperceivable. Mayhap your empathy for them stems from a deeprooted connection in the more earthy realms of Shadow. Mine stems from generations of Mikin livelihood that took place in and around these grounds. We watched them fall...but we will see them raised anew. Believe it or not, I imagine shadow just might play a role in such rebirths. Guided by the Light. There are many ways in which those like you are of value. You are a man and therefore of a soul." Kael finally dares to peer up at /her/... "I kin..." He pauses, shakes his head - reaching up to toy with the end of that long tail of hair. ".. I.. afore I get t' talkin' .. I.." He frowns, searching still for words.. "I.. came t' tell ye 'm sorry. More, what I hae seen this place, and ken how t' get here - y' deserve t' know that, an' ye.. I put m'self in yer hands, m'lady." Calm. Serious, that. "Y' hae a reason fer yer secrets, here - an' y' deserved t' see th' man b'hind th' monster what breached 'em. I.. may hae frightened ye. I woul' hae been - y' did nae deserve that. An'.. " Stiffly, carefully: "if.. m' tryin' t' be sommat more, frightenin' folk an' not ownin' m' actions 's th' act o' th' monster. Jus'... took a while t' get th' courage up t' come here." He swallows. "if .. well. I wi' nae fight, if y'.." He trails off, that unschooled expression.. calm nonetheless. Oh, nervous, to a great extent, but somehow accepting. "Unless you've been cavorting with Zareef in my bedchamber, you've seen no secrets here, only my life's work - and that's a continuous bout of studies which has a purpose of reaching public eye anyhow," Rowena offers with merciful rebuttal. "To flap your way too closely within the property of royal blood is a mistake indeed, of grave proportions, depending on whose property it may be. However I will take the storm's winds into consideration and therefore, you'll not be witnessing the inside of a prison chamber." A wry smile strikes Rowena's exppression and she takes another small sip of wine. "Instead, I'll accept your services, whatever it is they may be, in restoring the former glory of our city. It need not be a monumental thing, but meditate on what it is you can offer of yourself and then send word to me. Craftsmen of all kinds are needed - and what's more - citizenry." Tapping the arm of the chair pointedly at that, she drains the rest of the wine and sits the goblet to rest for the final time. The remainder of her stiffened muscles slowly relax, fiber by fiber, until the livid expression presented to him earlier is replaced by a far more placid one. "A man's word is a powerful thing, sir. It has the power to destroy, but also to maintain - via its honor. To admit falterings of one's scruples as you have done displays such honor, especially in the face of another power - that being myself - which carries with it the capability to prescribe wrath in a variety of ways. Fortunately for us both, I am not a person of vengence regarding such petty matters of flight, and so it is that here, on the 20th eve of Seedwarming, I acknowledge and accept your apology." If she relaxes.. he sags with his own kind of relief. "Light... thankye, m'lady." He ducks his head. "s' kind o' ye. I wi' nae forget 't." He pauses, glancing up - "s' a lot I kin do.. maybe. M' nae skilled wi' m' hands..." He swallows. "but I will, what'eer I kin do." "Well then," Rowena nods and stands abruptly for the first time during the meeting. "We have an accord." A wink is offered to seal the deal, then she turns with questionable grace on heel and begins a very careful - perhaps overly so - climb of the winding staircase. The guardsman clears his throat and opens the door, preparing to guide Kael out. Oh, he goes... but he /can't/ resist. Simply can't.. ".. ne'er ken what y' noble lot see 'n wine." He sniffs, lightly .. and with some distaste, but moves to the guard. "light keep ye, m'lady. An' y' e'er need me.. m' nae far, jus down 't th' monastary. They wi' find me." ---- ''Return to Season 6 (2007) Category:Logs